


Forever in the Twilight (Like a Diamond in the Calm)

by starclipped



Series: The Courage to Start Over [3]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Coming Out, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oneshot, Personal Growth, Richie's first show since Derry 2.0, Romance, Slice of Life, Suggestive Themes, but mild, eddie tries to be romantic again, i don't know what this is i'm sorry, mike gets hit on regularly in florida just so you know, part 3 in a series, side benverly stanpat and bill/audra, the losers club hang out, the turte (IT) HAS helped us, too much dialogue, whatever it's about the, when you write for a funny character but aren't funny at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:48:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24818641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starclipped/pseuds/starclipped
Summary: "But for real, I should start by reintroducing myself, right? I was, um, I was gone for a while. If any of you have short attention spans like I do, you're probably sitting there like 'who the fuck is this sweaty schlump? Bring out John Mulaney!' Sorry to disappoint, but John can't save you now. You're stuck with me. Richie 'Trashmouth' Tozier. Remember? Ah, yeah, yeah, now you do! The guy who choked on stage and disappeared for like six months. Fuck, he's still alive? Yikes!"[Or: The Losers meet up for Richie's maybe/sort of come back show. Eddie's attempt at romance goes a little awry.]
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: The Courage to Start Over [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1760494
Comments: 17
Kudos: 85





	Forever in the Twilight (Like a Diamond in the Calm)

**Author's Note:**

> "i'll be your shoulder to cry on, i will always hear your voice. full of desire; you love, you laugh, you dream. i'll give you healing with my touch, i can take it, I can take all the pain. it's all for you, for you, for you, it's always been for you."  
> — all for you; night riots  
> (fic title taken from this song)

Richie's heart is pounding, body bouncing with endless nervous energy behind the curtain. The stage lights cast a glare across the lenses of his glasses, turning the skin of his hands ghostly pale when he looks down at them, trying to steady the slight tremors by wiggling his fingers and shaking his wrists. 

The dark sleeves of his blazer reach jutting bones on each arm, the cuffs held together by rectangular metal links. They shimmer with every motion, the flaps magnetized to secure the special wooden notes inside. He'd toyed with them in the dressing room, after the Losers (sans Eddie, who had already been pacing around the room since they'd stepped inside, like _he_ was the one about to perform in front of a large audience) had been guided toward him by security upon special request.

They'd all hugged for the first time since Thanksgiving, offering Richie pats on the back and Eddie one of the water bottles out of the mini fridge because, seriously, he looked as if he might faint. 

_"Break a leg,_ " Bill said when Steve knocked on the door, reminding him he had ten more minutes.

 _"Why would you say that?_ " Eddie snapped. _"Look at his fucking legs, Bill! They're beanpoles! Now he's gonna trip and fall off the fucking stage because you jinxed him!"_

 _"It's just an expression,"_ Audra had countered, wisely biting her lip to keep from laughing as Eddie turned red with rage.

_"Yeah, for actors! Which he isn't! Richie's a comedian—"_

_"Debatable_ , _"_ Stan mumbled. 

_"Do not start with me right now,"_ Eddie said darkly, as if the insult was somehow personal. Beverly rolled her eyes at Richie's lovesick expression. Mike and Ben wisely stayed out of it. " _Listen, I'm just saying. Richie puked like five minutes before you guys came back here and I barely kept it together as is, so if you start freaking out—"_

 _"The only one freaking out here is you, Eds,"_ Bill had said, gesturing to Richie, who had his mouth clamped shut to avoid any extra bodily reactions that might have otherwise made themselves known.

_"I swear to God, Bill—"_

_"Hatzlakha u-brakha,"_ Stan cut in solemnly, while Patty nodded her head and rubbed Richie's arm. 

_"What?"_ Eddie shouted, brows furrowing in that too-cute way. " _What're you—what is that? Are you fucking cursing him in Yiddish right now?"_

That had gotten a round of laughs, making Richie relax even as Eddie bristled.

 _"It's a good thing,_ " Richie said, half guessing but also partially recognizing the phrase from long ago, when he'd gotten a side role in a high school play, his first taste of performing. He'd puked then, too, but had felt on top of the world after shouting a handful of lines. Eddie was right about him not being an actor, although he supposes the Trashmouth he'd allowed himself to become during his career is probably evidence of the opposite.

 _"It means success and blessings,"_ Stan had rightfully explained, making Richie smile.

Patty, with a gleam in her eyes, added: " _To counter Bill's bad omen."_

Steve chose that moment to shriek about going on in five and brought a guard to escort everyone back to their front row seats. Eddie had paused in the doorway to fix Richie's blazer, knuckles turning white against the lapels. 

" _Don't break a leg,"_ he'd said, palms sliding down Richie's arms, fingertips grazing the cufflinks he'd given him, silently reminding him of the messages inside. _"You got this, Richie. I'd say 'knock 'em dead' but I'll be in the audience and I'm kinda sick of dying, so."_

 _"Okay, the only thing dying here is my vibe, man."_ He really did feel like he might puke again, in a bad _and_ good way. Somehow. _"Get outta here. Don't make faces at me while I'm up there or I'll cry. I love you."_

 _"Love you too, Rich,_ " he whispered, giving Richie's five o'clock shadow a quick kiss before opening the door and allowing himself to be led away into the crowd. 

Steve had materialized in Eddie's place almost immediately, offering Richie a sip of bourbon (just to take the edge off) and a second mint. 

He's standing just off to the side now, one minute out, the roar of the crowd resonating in his bones. He hears his name above the noise, slaps his cheeks, puts on a grin that isn't as fake as some of his old ones and strides out into the open, already sweating at the hairline due to the lights glaring down on him. His eyes take a minute to adjust, but when they do he sees Eddie, Bill, Audra, Bev, Ben, Mike, Patty, and Stan all in the front row, smiling and clapping along.

Richie becomes momentarily overwhelmed by a wave of emotion, seeing his friends for the first time ever at one of his shows, knowing they're witnessing the reality of his dream having come true; even more so after reuniting, after being given this second chance at life and love. 

Then Bill whistles like a fucking soccer mom and Richie is brought back to the zone, the tremors in his hands ceasing as his fingers wrap around the microphone. Eddie's crinkly doe eyes and dimply smile gives him strength. He takes a breath and opens his mouth. 

*******

"Hey everyone! Hi, thanks for turning up on this, uh, fine, beautiful day—or afternoon, I guess? I've been living in a sex dungeon since August, under a crackhead house, so forgive me for being a little confused. Breathing in that fine Derry-air will do that to ya.

Derry in Maine, I mean, get your minds out of the gutter! That's the place I grew up. But don't google that shit. You really won't like what you find. Trust me, amigos. Or do it, actually, if you like clowns, murder, and fucked up crimes being glossed over by incompetent yayhoo police, which sounds like my demographic, so, actually, go ahead and google that shit, yeah! Maybe you'll finally understand the one thing that continues to elude everyone I've ever known. Even my therapist can't figure out if I'm simply a product of disaster genetics or if it was my super traumatic childhood that's made him this way. I'm pretty sure you guys will be able to work that out for yourselves, by the end of this set. That's really what this is, you know. Like, therapy is super fucking expensive for a hack like me, and now all you suckers are here, paying for said hack to make you laugh when, in reality, this is just one big therapy session for me. Although… if any one here tonight likes to laugh at other people's misfortunes, I guess this might just be the funniest shit you've ever heard, so maybe we both got played. 

"But for real, I should start by reintroducing myself, right? I was, um, I was gone for a while. If any of you have short attention spans like I do, you're probably sitting there like _'who the fuck is this sweaty schlump? Bring out John Mulaney!'_ Sorry to disappoint, but John can't save you now. You're stuck with me. Richie 'Trashmouth' Tozier. Remember? Ah, yeah, yeah, now you do! The guy who choked on stage and disappeared for like six months. Fuck, he's still alive? _Yikes!_ Yeah. I accept condolences in the form of cash or cookies. My manager's got a PO box, you can google that too. But yeah, you _might_ know me from that one awful show that's gonna define the rest of my career for… however long I manage to keep going, probably—if what I say tonight doesn't take the cake, which, _hah_ , fingers crossed! You're in for a doozy, my dudes. I mean, I've had a lot of bad shows in my time, mostly when I was a twenty-something good for nothing dork who thought potty humor was the pinnacle of comedy. I still think that, by the way, but being over forty automatically makes everything you say and do more sophisticated, like at this age I use wine glasses instead of solo cups and cry over my receding hairline instead of all the shit my bullies used to yell at me. Maybe that's what the kids these days call growth? That's probably why I ended up so tall. Had a lot of growing to do, just, you know, _belatedly._

"So let's get reacquainted, shall we? That's part of my rebranding, if you haven't seen one of the many, _many_ articles regurgitating the talking points my manager had me sticking to during all those interviews I've somehow been landing since January. I think Steve made a deal with the devil. I'll be headlining hell in no time, the gig of my dreams! But we're stuck with Reno for now, two steps above the raging inferno most of us have been warming our hands over since puberty—if you're wondering what stands between Reno and hell, it's Vegas, where I'll be performing this Friday, hashing self-promo or whatever. Come see me there for a hopefully better version of what I'm doing right now.

"But, uh, yeah. _Hello_ all you lucky bastards, my name is Richie "Trashmouth" Tozier and, boy, do I have a lot to say! That's nothing new, but the content sure is, I promise, so strap in and get ready for a bumpy ride.

"I figure you all know that Richard is, like, an old Germanic compound word. Ric that means ruler, leader, _king_ ; yeah, yeah, clap for me, clap for your king, you're all my loyal little piles of trash now, huh? That's so sweet. And then there's…

 _"Hard_ —which I very much am _not_ right now. Performance anxiety is a real issue, people, and I won't apologize. But hard, as in... as in strong, brave, hardy. Before my life unceremoniously fell apart and then miraculously came back together, pretty much like a rom-com or but _only_ if it were created by Clive Barker, I would've called bullshit on that. I mean, okay, these guns aren't just for show, baby! But I'm definitely at least ten percent _Hardee's_ by now—sponsor me, please. This gut isn't just for show either, I need free milkshakes for life. But the, uh, the brave thing? Yeah, no, not at all. I was a fucking coward, guys. I was brave one time when I was thirteen and, wow. That was way more than enough for a couple of decades, I gotta say. Until August. Until a reunion in Derry, Maine. 

"Okay, there wasn't a sex dungeon, I lied, but there _was_ sex and also _kind of_ a dungeon, in loose nerdy terms, like where a final boss battle takes place. And it _was_ under the crackhead. Not the sex, the semi-dungeon. It was really more of a cave, but that doesn't sound as cool. Metaphors are a thing for a reason. I asked one of my friends before I walked out here, he's an author so he should know. I say _should_ because, uh, any of you ever heard of William Denbrough? Yeah, he's my friend! His wife hates me. Audra Phillips. The actress or model or whatever she says she is. I can pretend I'm unimpressed 'cause she's more successful than I'll ever be, so which one of us is actually insulted, huh? But Bill's alright, yeah. He's working on a new book, which I'm _allowed_ to say, you can't sue me, and I can personally promise that the ending _doesn't_ suck! I've seen a few miracles in my lifetime and this might be, like, the second biggest one. You're welcome. I can also confirm that Beverly Marsh—you know, the fashion designer who looks like Molly Ringwald—is working on some new solo stuff. I'd say it's really good but I don't know anything about fashion, clearly, so I'll just say that supporting her new endeavor also helps with some really great causes, mainly domestic abuse, so look out for that. And oh, how many of you know a hunky architect who goes by the name Ben Hanscome? _Ooooooh_ yeah. Awooga, right? Well, he's taken, you hussies! Settle down. He's got some really cool humanitarian projects coming up, though. Actually, he didn't want me to mention that, only wanted me to talk about the second dog he adopted recently and to maybe also slip in a message about how everyone who can afford it should foster shelter animals. Yeah, he's _that_ kind of person. Way too good for this crap heap of a world. It's almost sickening, until you know that both his pets are named after singers from New Kids On The Block, and then you realize, truly, nobody's perfect.

"Now, I know what you're thinking, but this actually is _not_ me boasting about my insanely famous friends to make myself seem cooler, I promise. They actually asked me to advertise for them on my big come-back show because celebrities are assholes who want everything for free even though they make bank on the daily, and apparently they think I'm, like, a _huge_ deal. Then again, so did the guy at a Georgia Super 8 who wanted to sell my autograph on Ebay since I'm supposedly the new Britney Spears. Yes, that seriously happened. Long story, one for another time. All you really need to know is that my name for this show was gonna be "It's Richie, bitch!" but copyright is the _real_ bitch here, so Trash the Come-Back was born. Oh, I should also say right now that I have three other _not_ famous but totally just as amazing friends, if you can believe six people talk to me on a regular basis. Mike, Stan, and Eddie. I'll be talking about one of those guys a _lot_ during this show, just a heads up, and you should know that we all grew up together in Maine, which is fucking bonkers, but there you go. Can you tell I wrote five different scripts and can't remember which one my manager actually greenlit? Yeah, I'm a mess. Raise your hand if you knew that already? _Assholes_.

"Anyway, what was I saying? Right, being brave and all that, not really my thing. My pals, though, yep, those fuckers are like the centerfolds for fuckin' Brave & Beautiful or something. Did I mention they're all insanely hot? There was something in the water where we grew up but I guess I didn't get enough. Seriously, fuck them for making me look bad and then fuck them for making me look _good,_ 'cause I found my bravery at forty fucking years old and you know what? It _was_ worth it. The trauma, on the other hand? _Eh_ . Jury's still out on that one. And yeah, my trauma includes clowns, but so does, like, everyone's at this point, right? I heard about those weird sightings. You guys are some sick fuckers. If any of my friends catch you on the streets, you're donezo. We're pretty much the Ghostbusters when it comes to that shit. Clownbusters? No, that sounds gross, pretend I never said that. Now there's probably gonna be a category on PornHub after we're done here. That'll be my _real_ claim to fame.

"Instead, let's circle back around to the point, yeah? Got a little sidetracked. It's probably my undiagnosed ADHD. Um, so the best thing about me having the name Richard isn't how I'm apparently a brave king—I should mention that Richard, as one word, actually means _strong in rule_ , but shhhhh, that didn't fit my whole schtick here, so forget it. Nah, the best thing about me being named Richard is that the word _dick_ is involved. Right?! Dick is an amazing word. One of my top five, for sure. I've gone by Richie my whole life, but I could just have easily been known as Dickie Tozier, and then it'd be game over, assholes! My power would be over 9000. I heard that somewhere. Don't know what it's from but I'm pretty sure it fits. So while I don't go by Dick, the word is still very, very close to my heart. And I have three mind blowing reasons why. Are you paying attention here? It's about to get juicy. Alright.

"One: I _am_ a dick. Not just in name, but also in personality. It's a gift. I lost the receipt when I was nine so, no, I can't return it. Two: I _have_ a big dick. I've measured it, like, a dozen times throughout my entire life. It's pretty much a scientific fact by this point. You're welcome forthat awesome imagery. And three: I _love_ a good dick. My boyfriend's, to be exact. Yep, you heard that right! Thank you, thank you. Have a good night! 

"No, no, I'm kidding. Not about loving my boyfriend's dick, that's one million percent true. I'm kidding about the show being over, you dumb bastards. Can't get rid of me that easy, many have tried! But I guess the show might be over for _some_ of you. I see a few heading for the exits already. Wow, you guys process shit fast! Mm, must be nice. Well. Adios, assholes! Hope you read the fine print. No refunds!

"That was me coming out, by the way. That's what it's called, right? I was actually trapped in a closet this whole time, not a fake sex dungeon. And I got a blowjob _in_ my closet recently, by my boyfriend, which I totally have. It's not all bullshit like the girlfriends I used to joke about. Fun fact: he's one of the three normal, and I use that term _really_ fucking loosely, friends I mentioned before. One of the plebs. Stan and Mike are cool, but _my_ guy is Eddie and yes, he approves this message. I mean that literally. He gave me the dirtiest look when I showed him the script for this shitshow and then he made a bunch of corrections 'cause he knew I was trying to play it safe. We promised to go balls to the wall from now on—carpe diem style, not YOLO, there's a big difference—so thank _him_ for making me the man I am today.

"I've been crushing on Eddie since middle school, so yeah. I know this is a comedy show, but joke's aside for a sec... I'm a better version of myself when Eddie's around. He's why I decided I could say all this to you guys right now. Finding Eddie in Derry after dropping off the face of the earth for twenty years and forgetting shit normal people call childhood memories—don't ask me about that, really seriously don't, I might go full Lizzie Borden on you, and, oh yeah, that's an inside joke so don't ask me about _that_ either. There could be legal ramifications. I just mean, seeing Eddie again has been the best thing to ever happen to me, no lie. I love him a lot and I'm fucking amazed that he loves me the same. He didn't want me to be this sappy, you know, 'cause he was worried about me being up here, doing this after everything we went through in August, but here I am, officially one of those gross people who walk around with hearts in their eyes and stupid smiles on their faces. Isn't that gross? I love it.

"My motivation for talking about my relationship is as pure as my intentions, I swear. I'm declaring my love for Eddie publicly because it's sweet and he deserves it. _We_ deserve it. Totally _not_ because I know he'll go feral and suck my soul straight through my dick after this show is over. _Noooo,_ of course not! Honestly, he's more likely to rip my balls off now, but hey, I love surprises! They truly are the spice of life. That makes it sound like he wears the pants in our relationship, huh? Well, as a former alpha nerd dude bro, I'm here to say that's not true. Neither one of us wears pants eighty-five percent of the time, so _there_. 

"No, but for real. I'd like to say we're equals but Eddie is such a bossy little gremlin. I'm scared and horny, always. If we have time I'll tell you about how he used to climb on top of me in a hammock way back when, with these little red shorts. He'd slap me in the face with his feet. I'm not saying I have a _fetish_ , alright, but if I did… well, theoretically that'd be why. It's not _weird._ It's not! I'm sure there's at least one person here who's into fucking— _watersports_ or something. But hey, no shame here! Uh, alright, maybe a _little_ shame. Point is, you're gonna learn way more about me tonight than you ever wanted to know. You probably already have.

"So, we all caught up then? All reintroduced? Good, good. Stick around, losers, the fun really is just beginning!"

*******

Richie changes once the show is over, before everyone gets invited back to the dressing room. He was too drenched in sweat (from the heat of the lights, from so many breathing bodies, but mostly from nerves as he rambled through his set, delivering each thought, each punchline, in top form, like he was twenty-seven again and hungry for _more_ —only this time he's finally able to feel _full_ ) to be comfortable, so off everything came.

Richie kicks his fancy shoes and too-tight jeans to the side, taking more care with peeling the blazer down his shoulders so he can safely tuck the cufflinks away into their proper box, which he stores, with a lingering touch, in his duffel next to a stick of deodorant he makes quick use of. He tugs a fleece sweater onto his bare chest after flinging the drenched undershirt to the floor, reaching for a pair of well-worn jeans and dirty sneakers.

Fully dressed in more casual wear, Richie takes his glasses off to rub at the bridge of his nose and the shadows beneath his eyes, using the hem of his sweater to wipe smudges from the lenses. He snatches a water bottle from his bag to take a long pull from while blinking the world back into clarity, then stuffs his dirty clothing into a drawstring sack Eddie must have snuck in before they left for their flight. He takes one glance at his phone, swallowing hard at the number of notifications presented in a line down the screen; turns it off, tucks it away. 

Richie had asked for ten minutes before allowing security to let anyone back here, so he's not exactly surprised when there's a knock on his door, just slightly disappointed to find Steve on the other end rather than his friends. 

"Great show, Rich," Steve applauds, sounding like he means it. "A lot different than the usual. Loved the bit about the psycho pomeranian. And the crowd was eating you up tonight! The comments on social media are already—"

"Can we save the rundown for later?" he asks, slightly desperate. He's relieved, sure, but he's tired and jittery and hungry too. "I really just… can't handle all this right now."

"Yeah, of course. No problem. We'll talk about it tomorrow, I'll send you a time and place. Your little entourage is waiting down the hall, should I—"

"Yeah, please. And the bourbon—"

"I'll get it."

"Just a sip."

"I know." Steve slaps a hand against the door frame and smiles, softer than usual. "Really, Rich, that was great. If I knew you could write like that I would've had you fire your ghostwriters a long time ago."

"Yeah, well." Richie shrugs, coughing out a sheepish laugh. "I didn't want to, back then. Couldn't. But shit's different now."

"It sure is." There's a loud noise nearby, a distinct voice rising above all the clatter of the crew winding down, followed by laughter. Richie's heart _buh-bumps_ at the sound. Steve rolls his eyes. "Your, uh, boyfriend—" (Eddie didn't really like that term, found it too juvenile, but he hadn't made one comment about Richie's use of it in his script, probably because it was the easiest way to explain their otherwise strange and slightly-conplicated-but-not-really relationship; maybe one day they'll be able to call each other something else), "—is making a scene about something. And now he's pointing at me."

Richie laughs. The warmth that rushes through him is different from the heat of adrenaline he'd felt on stage. Better.

"You're lucky that's all he's doing." He shoves the duffel to the floor and falls sideways on the leather couch, heaving a sigh. " _Eeeeddddiiieeeee, save me!_ " he screeches, making Steve wince. He sticks his arm out the door to wave them forward. 

"Don't stay out too late," his manager warns, stepping back as several pairs of feet stomp forward.

"Aw, but _dad…"_

"And don't talk to the press until after our meeting tomorrow. That means no tweeting. We have to Skype with the team to figure out what comes next. And don't forget about Vegas on Friday!"

"As if I'd let him," Eddie snarks, shoving past Steve to storm into the room, a swarm of smiling faces hot on his heels. He's got a glass in hand, a mere inch of alcohol filling the bottom, like he'd heard Richie ask for it from five feet down the hall. "We'll be leaving soon. Fifteen minutes, tops. Do I need to call for some cars or can you handle that?"

Beverly snorts into Ben's shoulder. Steve huffs, fingers swiping at his phone with purpose. 

"Consider it done," he replies dryly. 

Eddie gives a pleased little hum from where he lingers by the couch, close enough for Richie to touch if he stretched, while the others crowd the middle of the room. But it's not until Steve repeats "great show, Rich" and closes the door that Eddie takes the seat beside him, nervously smoothing his palms across the tight black pants covering his thighs. 

They aren't yet used to being _romantically_ affectionate in front of anyone yet, though the occasional touch and kiss and nudge at Thanksgiving had been a nice start. It's just awkward, really. Doing stuff in front of people they'd tagged around with at that weird pre-pubescent age, people who had seen them argue and tease and chase and had _known_ , in some way, that those were the actions of two idiots who had been slowly blossoming beyond friendship in a place that didn't nurture such a development.

Here, Eddie discreetly slants his body closer to Richie's, knocking their knees. Richie throws an arm casually across the back of the couch, resting more so against Eddie's nape than the sloping leather, and allows his hand to gently cup the shoulder farthest from him, fingertips tracing a seam on his windbreaker. Eddie spreads his legs a little to get more comfortable, inadvertently crowding even more into Richie's space. Not that he minds. Richie reciprocates again by setting his right calf over his left knee, glancing down at his foot as it dangles over Eddie's lap. Rather than complain about getting his dirty sneakers on Eddie's pristine pants, he reaches out to grasp his ankle, a thumb slipping beneath the bottom hem of Richie's jeans to graze the delicate ankle bone jutting out.

They stay that way even as Mike, Ben, and Bev join them on what remains of the long cushion, with Bill, Audra, Stan, and Patty, clustering around the vanity.

"I think Richie's manager is afraid of Eddie," Bill says with a hint of a smirk. 

"Really?" Ben wonders, scrubbing a hand over his fuzzy jaw. "Seemed more like jealousy, to me."

"Speaking from experience?" Richie teases. 

Ben raises a brow, but it's Beverly that says, "Like you can talk. Tell me I wasn't the only one seeing double."

"No, you're right," Bill agrees. "Steve and Eddie _do_ look eerily similar."

"What? That is _so_ not true."

"Yeah! Eddie is way hotter than Steve, for one thing. And a thousand percent funnier. Eds is a spitfire and Steve is, hmm, like... a little baby flame."

"They're the same height," Bev counters.

"Same dark hair, same dark eyes," Ben adds.

Mike smiles as both Richie and Eddie squirm beside him.

"Fast-talkers who know what they want and do whatever they can to get it."

"Steve is younger, though…" Stanley points out, suddenly interested in playing Devil's Advocate. Or maybe he's just interested in pissing Eddie off. It definitely works. 

"Oh, fuck _off_ , you agist prick."

" _Okay!_ Sure, whatever, but it's not _like_ that," Richie huffs. He grabs the glass from Eddie and swallows the bourbon in one go. "It never was." _How could it be?_ he doesn't add. He has a feeling they already understand.

Just because Bill married a woman who looks like Bev, just because Bev married a man who acts just like her father, just because Eddie married a woman who is practically his mother incarnate, doesn't mean Richie sought out Steve to replace the munchkin sized hole in his chest. Ben had never looked for anyone, his heart having always been hung up on someone he couldn't recall, and that was Richie as well. Landing Steve in his life had been… well, not a coincidence, because everything meant _something_ as far as the Losers were concerned, but it definitely hadn't been fate or kismet. And it definitely wasn't anything beyond what it might seem on the surface.

Steve might resemble Eddie in appearance and behavior, but only in a mild sense, in tiny doses. No one else in the world is like Eddie Kaspbrak, with all his kinks and quirks; no one else in the world owns Richie's entire soul the way he does. And, anyway, all Richie had gotten out of Steve was a good career and a comfortable level of familiarity. He'd found him attractive, yeah—just like he used to consider any short guy with big eyes and deep dimples prime material for his spank-bank—but that had been all. They'd never even cultivated a true friendship, since Steve was ever the professional and Richie was ever the sad-sack loner. With Eddie… everything was _different_. Always had been.

He must be looking more serious than he thought because, soon enough, Beverly is reaching around Mike and Eddie to sympathetically pat Richie's knee.

"We're just messing with you," she says, eyes still shining despite the softer grin adorning her features. 

"Yes," Stan flippiantly agrees, "we're well aware of how devoted to your lover you are."

"You don't have to say it like _that,_ Stanley. Ugh."

"Lighten up, Trashmouth" Bill encourages. "You dish it out all the time, we know you can take it better than that."

"He's not the only one," Audra points, snickering at how red his cheeks are. "Look at Eddie's face."

"Stop fucking laughing!"

"Guys, let them be," Patty giggles, though not unkindly. "It's been a big night for both of them. Shouldn't we be talking about where we'd all like to eat?"

"She's right." Stan loops an arm around his wife's waist, checking his watch. "We need to decide fast. Our appointment's at 9:30."

Ah, yeah. With everything going on today Richie had almost forgotten about their after-show plans: a celebratory drink, dinner, and tattooing. 

Beverly had stepped up to the plate for this endeavor, having had a designer friend from Reno who happened to be related to one of the talented artists at a nearby parlor called Pascow's Pigment. Eddie, of course, had decided to do his own research on the matter, sending pictures and reviews he found all over the internet to the group chat for discussion. Beverly banned him from calling to ask about their health regulations, convinced his hypochondria and general personality would get them banned before ever even having stepped foot inside, but she'd relayed the information sooner rather than later, the results satisfying each of them to various degrees.

They collectively agreed to do it after Richie's first comeback show, a way of expressing support with solidarity while also fully uniting the club as they truly are now: older and more assured, actually knowing themselves and understanding the reasons behind what they do and how they feel. Richie had asked Stan early on if he was really okay to go along with this, seeing as the body is a temple, but Stan had once again accepted, not quite with enthusiasm but something close. He'd spoken to Patty about it after the initial talk on Thanksgiving, then to his father after the seriousness of the idea had begun to grow. In the end it was purely Stan's decision, one he made on his own terms, without fear or regret.

Richie could definitely say the same for himself. With all that he'd done since Derry, getting a word printed on his skin would be more than a piece of cake.

They decide to hit up an In N Out for their late evening dinner, something fast to get an easy to eat so they know for sure they'll arrive at the parlor on time. They don't want the artists who agreed to come in after hours to be kept waiting.

The cars Steve had called for take them where they ask, dropping all nine figures off at a park with their greasy paper bags and paper cups in hand, waiting at the curb while they laugh and choke and flick fries at each other that a few stray birds inevitably swoop in to snatch up. Richie complains about his soda after a few sips, since he'd insisted on mixing flavors without knowing what he'd like. He tries to steal Eddie's sensible Sprite Zero and, after some ribbing and some playful face shoving, he gives in and decides to share. They'll be going for beers after the appointment, hopefully before midnight, so Richie will make up for it by ordering whatever fruity cocktail Eddie will eventually act like he hasn't shown interest in. 

Richie is, admittedly, a little worried about being recognized, especially after such a big show, but he only gets a couple mild glances as they sit and chat, the dark doing wonders in shielding him from view. 

"I learned more about your sex life tonight than I ever wanted to know," Bill jokes at one point, chuckling at Eddie's dismayed expression. "Seriously. I never thought Eds would be alright with you airing out that type of laundry, Rich."

"Well, it's part of us," Eddie says before Richie can open his mouth. "And Richie wanted to—to _come out_ , and he wanted to…"

"I wanted to talk about how much I _like_ this idiot," he interjects fondly, grinning at Eddie's scrunched nose. "He's pretty much the only reason I decided to throw myself to the sharks like that. So we could, like, be happy together and all that mushy stuff. Without secrets."

"Without hiding," Eddie agrees, eyes boring into Richie's under the dim streetlight near their bench. "And, I mean, the divorce is pretty much a done deal, signed and everything. I'm just waiting on the decree, so the timing for this whole thing worked out pretty well."

"Almost like it was meant to be," Ben says as he plops his elbow onto the table to place his chin in hand. Beverly sets her head on his shoulder and hums her agreement. 

"I dunno." Eddie shifts, fingers sliding down Richie's thigh beneath the table to rest on his knee, which he squeezes. Richie only jumps a little before pressing into the touch. Soaking affection up like a sponge. "Maybe. I guess—I guess I'd like to believe that, yeah."

"Me too," Richie breathes, the back of his neck burning under the collar of his sweater. 

A couple of them, Richie included, are buzzing with nerves when the duo of cars park in front of Pascow's, after dropping Audra and Patty off at the hotel. Eddie looks on the verge of a panic attack the closer to the entrance they get, but when Richie asks, in a whisper, if he needs to take a breather or even back out, Eddie resolutely says _no, fuck that._ He wants to do this and he will. 

He does.

Theydo.

There were four artists inside, spending almost two hours on Bill, Eddie, Richie, and Stan first. The stencils had been made ahead of time, thanks to Eddie sending in the lettering they'd come up with at Mike's place in Florida, and with the placements predefined (on each of their chests, over their hearts, because they're cheesy like that), all they really had to worry about was the sterilization (before and after) and the inking itself, plus the instructions on how to keep the area from getting infected after the bandages are taped on. The others chatter listlessly and lament their pain when Bev, Ben, and Mike get tended to next. 

The parlor had been previously paid for this late-night rendezvous, but each Loser leaves a hefty tip and a genuine thanks before they leave some four and a half hours later, quite a while after twelve but not quite close to one. 

"I can't believe we did that," Stan murmurs, stepping out into the chilly air once more, absently rubbing at his cardigan without touching the tender spots beneath. 

"It didn't hurt as much as I thought it would."

"I mean... dude. You got stabbed in the face and—" _And skewered through your fucking torso,_ he doesn't say. It hangs in the air as if he had. Trying to think of it casually is still difficult. "Uh, _you know._ You're probably immune to everything else now. Invulnerable."

"Or maybe he's not a wimp," Bev teases. "It was barely more than a tickle."

"Uh oh. Better watch out, Ben! Your lady might start getting freaky in the bedroom. It's gonna be nipple clamps and riding crops from here on out, my man."

"Oh, _beep beep!"_

"Hey, look over there."

Mike points down the block, toward a bar with a neon sign that glows bright in the night.

Richie tells the drivers to do whatever they want for an hour or so, while they shuffle inside to get a little tipsy in a sticky corner booth that isn't big enough to fit them all. They make it work, however, by having Mike, Richie, and Ben duck down and hunch in, with Eddie and Bev practically sitting on the latter two's laps. Bill manages to squeeze in at the end, one leg hanging off the ripped cushion. He does away with any discomfort by chugging some whiskey and laughing wildly at a story Mike tells about a little old lady in Micanopy that keeps inviting him over for milk and cookies.

Richie feels brave, in the shadow of their little booth, surrounded by the most important people in his life him. Eddie's hands are on top of the table, twitching as he argues with Ben about something inconsequential. Richie thinks about teaching over to slot their fingers together, so he _does._ Eddie stumbles over a word but doesn't falter after that, just tightens his grip in Richie's and continues talking, cheeks plumping with a crooked smile. The coarse hairs around his lips glisten with alcohol and Richie stares like a loon until Eddie elbows him in the ribs and wipes some ketchup off his chin. 

They're exhausted by the time the cars drive them back to the hotel, but happy and satisfied all the same. Stan books it to his room to reunite with Patty for some much needed rest, Bill not far behind to get to Adura, though Mike lingers with Ben and Bev in the near empty lobby to talk about the Patriots winning the Superbowl that prior Sunday. Nothing Richie cares about—nor even Eddie, whose interest in sports starts and stops at NASCAR, with the occasional foray into hockey but only because of all the yelling and fighting that tends to be involved—so he continues on down the hall, stumbling once or twice, until Eddie stops him with a hand on his elbow. 

"I, uh…" He clears his throat, expression turning pinched. "I kinda have something planned? But it's later than I thought it'd be, so if you just want to go to bed, you know—I mean, I'd get that. You did something huge today and I don't think it's really set-in yet? For either of us. So—"

"A surprise?" Richie wonders, mouth stretching into a slow, sleepy smile. "Lead the way, cutie pie. I'm down for whatever."

"You sure?" Eddie checks, sounding uncertain. Still, he slips his hand down to Richie's wrist and begins tugging him to the front, where a lone concierge sits. "You look like you're gonna pass out."

"Nah, I'm good. Promise. What're we—"

Eddie shushes him with one finger in the air, stopping Richie in his tracks three feet from the desk to rush the rest of the way on his own, where he passes a slip of paper and presents his driver's license. Richie watches the bored looking woman hand over a key card, lips moving with words Richie can't make out. Eddie spins on his heel then, throwing a look over his shoulder that says _come on_ , prompting Richie to immediately follow.

"What is this? Some sort of After Hours special?"

"Um. Yeah, actually."

"Okay." They move down the halls quietly, going toward a section of the hotel-slash-resort that houses a spa and gym. "So, I really hope you didn't suck anyone's dick to get these kinds of strings pulled."

"You fucking asshole _,"_ Eddie hisses, his quick steps only hesitating for a moment. He shoots Richie a withering glare, honestly offended by the thoughtless wisecrack that'd just been made. "I'm trying to be nice and then you just go and say shit like that to me."

"I know." Richie laughs, grabbing at Eddie's hand with hopes that he won't get slapped away. Luckily he doesn't. "Ignore me."

"Don't you think I've tried?" Eddie jerks on his arm to make him go faster. "And anyway, all I had to do was ask Steve to contact management here."

" _Eddie_ ." Richie feigns a gasp. "You used my celebrity status to get us special treatment? You sly dog." Eddie shrugs and leads them out a side door, out into the open air. They can hear cars roaming by on a street to the east, mumbled music and distant cheers greeting them from the casino at the other end of the courtyard. A massive atrium instantly catches Richie's eye. "Wait, you asked Steve to do _this_ for us?"

Lights from various buildings glimmer off the angular glass encasing a round pool, making it easy to see the blush that tints Eddie's cheeks. 

"Well, this whole thing was Ben's idea. And Mike was the one who suggested I get Steve's help 'cause, you know, otherwise we'd just be breaking in and obviously I'm not trying to get us arrested. Is that, uh… is that okay?"

"Hell yeah, man! I can't believe this."

"It's not a big deal," Eddie grumbles, jamming the card into its slot to unlock the double doors.

"Sure it is. You went to our friends for advice on _romance_ and roped my manager, who you fucking _hate—_ "

"I do _not._ "

"—into helping you woo me. This is amazing."

Eddie, still holding Richie's hand, guides them into the atrium, the sound of the doors clicking shut behind them seeming loud in the relative silence. 

Chaise loungers and umbrellas take up most of the area, alongside wicker tables that prop up drink menus and colorful succulents. Scattered across the stone floor are black mats that are used to catch dripping water and prevent slipping, and there are plants _everywhere_ ; in every corner, on the jagged rock accent wall, lining the sills beneath the numerous windows and hanging from each ledge of the atrium's eight walls, just before the ceiling begins to slant into a point. 

It's lit perfectly without any artificial chandeliers, glowing from all the distant flashing neon and the moon and stars above, which are _just_ visible if he tilts his head far enough back. Everything is cast in mysterious shadows, the top of the water looking like it's dancing depending on the angle, but the most beautiful sight is Eddie himself, watching Richie with pursed lips and loving eyes, swapping Richie's insides with jiggly jelly.

" _You're_ amazing," he says at last. Chokes, more like. Eddie hides a smile against his shoulder.

"Yeah, I guess I am. But so are you."

"Wow, you're really laying it on tonight. Hoping to get laid?"

He says it because he's nervous, though he's not quite sure why. Things like this still get him so jittery, so amazed.

Eddie sighs, finally letting their hands fall free. 

"Hoping to make you happy," he replies, and it's so unlike Eddie _and_ extremely like him, all at the same time, that it's almost unbelievable.

"You always make me happy," he whispers. Even when he'd been annoying or mean or sad or _gone_ , Eddie as a whole had always made Richie warm and giddy and _pleased._

"Oh. Here."

Eddie strides over to one of the loungers, pointing at some folded towels while picking up two pairs of trunks, all of which had clearly been left for them by an attendant after closing. 

There aren't any snacks or drinks, they'd taken care of that themselves before heading back here, so all there's left to do is shuck off their clothes to change into borrowed swimwear, allowing their feet to carry them to the rim of the pool.

Their twin bandages look oddly bright against their chests in the blue hue of the pool.

"Don't get it wet," Eddie reminds. "Stick to the shallow end. Nothing above the navel."

"Aye aye."

"Seriously, Rich. These are technically open wounds, alright? We have to be careful. Like, really, the ink needs to dry and getting into water right now is a stupid idea, so maybe we should just soak our feet for a while?"

"Is that what you want?" Richie's question gets Eddie frowning thoughtfully. "You came up with this whole thing, and it's _not_ stupid, so I'll follow your lead. If you wanna sit out, we'll sit out."

"That's probably the smarter thing to do."

"Right."

"But, uh, if we do what I said and stay mostly dry, then maybe…"

"Hell yeah," Richie agrees with a silly grin. "Let's do it. I swear I won't splash you or anything."

Eddie nods jerkily, the way he usually does when trying to convince himself of something, even when it's his own damn idea. First, though, he rushes back over to the chaise to grab a couple of towels, spreading them out across the stone floor so they'll have something cleaner to stand or sit on when they climb back out.

"There," he says, hands on his hips, thin lips twitching with a smile. 

The line on his cheek looks smooth and silvery, just begging to receive a sloppy smooch. Richie gives him one, patting his shoulder for good measure. He bends into a crouch, drops his ass onto the edge of the pool, slipping his feet and calves within. Eddie follows suit. Then, together, they slither into the shallow end, submerging themselves up to their belly buttons in water that should be too cool for February but is actually rather soothing. 

They stay near each other, wading a couple feet from the wall, until their toes barely graze the declining floor. The water around their stomachs ripple with each slow shift of their arms. Richie is tempted to go under, to dunk his head and pop back up, shaking excess water onto Eddie like a dog, but he refrains from doing so, like he said he would, and focuses on relaxing instead, feeling the weight of the days' responsibilities drop away from his body to float across the surface. 

Richie fills his cupped hands, pours water over his head, craving his neck so as not to leak anything onto his bandage, although he does get a few speckles across his lenses.

"C'mere."

"What? No! I don't want chlorine in my hair." 

"But I wanna see you all wet and sexy."

"Fuck off," Eddie snaps without any real anger, doing his best to waddle away. 

"Don't be a pussy," Richie teases. His long legs, even burdened by the density of the pool, catch him up easily. Maybe it helps that they’re sequestered in the baby side of the pool, too.

" _Ack!_ "

Richie rubs a wet hand all over Eddie's face, wraps himself around Eddie's torso, pressing his side firmly into the strong muscles of Eddie's back. 

"Richie!" he shrieks, voice cutting off with a shaky breath when the hand on his face slides down to curl around his throat, the side of Richie's knuckles forcing Eddie's chin up. 

The way he goes quiet, arching into the touch, has Richie biting the inside of his cheek to hold back a moan, which slips out anyway when Eddie's ass grinds against the crotch of Richie's trunks.

He ignores the stimulation for a moment to finish what he set out to do, running his dripping fingers through Eddie's gelled hair to soak the crunchy strands until they're soft and mussed, completing the action with a series of biting kisses over the side of his neck, sucking on the taut skin, licking at the fluttering pulse with the flat of his tongue. It pulls Eddie back even further, has him bending his spine in a way that would hurt Richie's out-of-shape form but only serves to show off Eddie's physique in a tantalizing view. And this, of course, presses him harder against Richie's dick, causing it to stir and fatten in his shorts in record time. 

"I know this is kind of lame," Eddie says quietly, hoarse beneath Richie's grip, digging into Richie's forearm with blunt nails, "since we can't even really _do_ anything, but I thought—I dunno. I thought it'd be relaxing. Plus, it's just… it's us."

 _Just us_ . Like that explains his decisions, his desires. Like it doesn't completely _ruin_ Richie while filling in the gaps to make him _whole_. 

"Yeah, no, this is fine. It's great. Thank you. But I still kinda can't believe you pulled the celebrity card, dude."

"Jesus, _yeah_ ," Eddie laughs, grinding slow and deliberate against Richie's half-chub. "I felt so fucking smarmy. But Ben said he'd do it for Bev, so how bad is it really? And it's not like I asked them to kick anyone out for this, it's literally just two people coming in here after closing. No harm done."

"Oh yeah, I know, but _wow_. You're so freaking cute."

"Shut up."

"I mean it!" Richie answers Eddie's movements with some gyrations of his own, both their breaths coming out quick and heavy. Droplets slide down his arm when he moves the one around Eddie's waist up to his chest, flattening between his pecs. The hand on Eddie's throat moves up an inch, the butt of his palm resting against Eddie's Adam's apple so he can hold his scruffy jaw. His fingertips prod at Eddie's lips while peering down at him over the top of his head to watch, mesmerized, as they part beneath his touch, hot breath ghosting the sensitive skin there, pink tongue poking out to tickle the pads. "I already said thanks, but let me say it again, as more of a blanket term. Thank you, Eddie, for being in the front row, for letting me express myself the way I needed to, for getting us here right now. In this pool, yeah, fucking _rubbing_ yourself all over my dick—"

"You're one to fucking _talk._ What're you doing right now, huh?"

 _Thinking about fucking you,_ he doesn't say, too certain he'll scare Eddie out of this. But the way he ruts against bottom probably speaks for itself. 

"Also—" Eddie reaches up to grab a handful of Richie's matted hair, the pull of it sending tingles down his spine that follows a winding livewire all the way around toward his erection. Richie swallows through a sudden thickness in his throat, gripping onto Eddie's jaw a bit more firmly. His lids slip closed on their own accord when Eddie emits a low, guttural groan. " _Also_ , thank you for sticking with me, for _getting_ me, for saving my life."

"Richie…"

"And, y'know, thank you for liking me. _Loving_ me. And, uh—"

Eddie cuts him off by tilting his head back as far as it can go, restint against Richie's broad shoulder, and proceeds to yank him into a searing kiss, smashing their mouths together in a sloppy mix of pain and pleasure. Richie breathes shakily through his nose just as Eddie licks behind his teeth, almost as if he's stealing Richie's air and makinf up for it by sharing his own. 

"Too much?" he asks, panting, when they force themselves to part.

"Always," Eddie chuckles, "but in a good way."

"Cool, cool."

Richie kisses Eddie this time, mimicking the one they shared just seconds ago, hard and deep and hungry, but there's an added softness to it, as well. A sweet sort of reverence that underscores nearly all of Richie's actions toward Eddie, no matter the context. It had always been this way, only back then he'd hide it behind snarky comments and stupid jokes. Now, he doesn't have to. He can be as open, as _vulnerable,_ as he wants. Better yet, he can be all that even when he _doesn't_ want to, trusting that, to Eddie, it will always be okay.

"I love you," Eddie gasps, just as that familiar feeling begins to boil hot in Richie's chest. In his gut. " _Fuck_ , I love you."

"Yeah, yeah, love you too. Love you _so fucking much,_ Eddie. Jesus Christ. You're amazing. You're beautiful."

"Yeah? Then freaking _touch_ me."

Richie snorts against Eddie's cheek, teeth scraping the shell of his ear as he obeys the command, moving the hand that's on Eddie's chest down his toned tummy until he can grope Eddie's bulge with purpose, knocking a mewling sigh from his throat that vibrates through Richie's palm. He massages Eddie's sternum, slipping beneath the waistband of his trunks, scraping coarse pubic hair on the way to squeezing his thick, weighty cock. Eddie nearly buckles from the sensation, but Richie holds him up easily in the water, which ripples around their hips the more they move.

He sucks a mark behind Eddie's ear, groaning at the pressure of Eddie's plump ass squirming against his crotch, fingers on his right hand pumping Eddie beneath the surface while his fingers on the left grope his chest above. He wishes he could see what Eddie's face is doing, especially when he gasps and spits out a clenched _fuck_. 

But then he gasps again and stills, bending forward like he's being led by a rope, and Richie suddenly gets the idea that maybe he's feeling something _other_ than pleasure. 

He pulls away fast, as if he's been burned.

"Eds?" he whispers, insides sparking with worry in place of arousal. Eddie clumsily splashes forward to grab at the pool's edge. "Eddie, whoa—"

"Shit, fuck, it _hurts."_

"What? Your tattoo?"

" _No_." He clutches at his chest, then, and Richie panics.

"Is it—are you having a heart attack? A stroke? What the—Eddie, hold on—"

He spins Eddie around and grabs him around the middle, lifting him bodily up to sit him on the stone floor despite Eddie's shriek of surprise, following him with a scramble that almost sees him falling backward when he slips.

" _Rich,_ " Eddie grits, face all screwy with pain, and for a moment all Richie can see is the way Eddie looked in that cavern, laying on his back with blood spewing from his mouth, the hole in his chest gaping and squelching with each labored breath. "Richie!" Eddie snaps, punching him in the calf to get his attention. 

Richie shakes those haunting memories away, gaze instinctually darting down to Eddie's bare torso—where the skin is scarred but in tact. 

"I'll—I'll call for help," he stutters, already attempting to stumble over toward his jeans and the phone that rests inside a pocket.

"I don't need help," Eddie counters, making Richie pause. "I just—just need _you_. Please."

"I'm here," Richie answers, already backtracking to fling himself beside Eddie, who lays atop one of the towels he spread out earlier. Richie brackets either side of his face, whispering: "I'm right here, Eddie, okay? Talk to me. What's goin' on?"

"It hurts," Eddie repeats, albeit a little less strained than before. "But it'll pass. Just… talk to me."

"What hurts? Your chest?"

"My scars." That makes him freeze. "Inside. It burns. Sharp pain. Like I'm being stabbed with a thousand knives. And I can say that because I fucking _have_ been stabbed. Multiple times. So I know what it's like and this isn't too far off."

Richie wants to panic again upon hearing that information because he doesn't _understand_. Is something wrong with Eddie? With the mystic Turtle magic that brought him back? Is it wearing off? Is he going to die again, with no second chance at returning?

"Rich?"

"Sorry, I'm sorry, _shit._ Uh, do you—has this happened before? Or was it because of, like, the tattoo and the alcohol and the fucking pool? Was I holding you too tight?"

"No. No to all of that, except the _has this happened before_ bit because, yeah, it has. Not much, but… a few times."

Richie stares with wide, crazed eyes.

"And you never fucking _mentioned_ it?" His voice pitches high with his worried anger. "What the hell, Eddie? I get you wanna be independent, alright, but this shit is serious! You could—you could be fucking _dying_ or something, what the shit—"

He hates the way his own voice cracks, the way his first response to anything overwhelming these days is to cry about it like a giant baby. Eddie winces, moves Richie's hands from his face to his chest, to the thing that reminds them both of how precious life is.

"I'm not dying," he says, almost like an admonishment.

Richie sniffles.

"Yeah? Well how do you know that, huh? Did you go to a doctor?"

"Uh, are you kidding me? No, of course not! I have scars that look a decade old even though I didn't _have_ them a decade ago. Can you imagine what's going on internally? How much scar tissue there must be? Oh, hello Mr. Kaspbrak, I see there's a discrepancy in your records here, would you mind explaining why your intestines are a fucking mangled mess when they were all nice and normal the last time you had an x-ray?"

"What'd you get an x-ray for?"

"Not the point, Richie!"

"Alright, fine! But who the fuck cares? You think they're gonna arrest you for it? Hang you for witchcraft? Eddie, c'mon. Doctors see weird shit all the time, what matters is that they make sure you're okay—"

"There's nothing wrong with me!" Eddie hollers, catching Richie off guard to the point of rendering him silent. "I'm not dying, I'm not _sick._ I'm fine. I _am_ okay. This is just… if this is what I have to deal with in exchange for living a life I actually enjoy, then whatever. It is what it is, right?"

"Don't do that. Don't use that against me."

"I'm not! Dammit, Richie, I can take it. I can deal."

"By yourself?"

Eddie's expression softens at Richie's pathetic tone. 

"Well, _you_ know now, so… not anymore."

"That's not funny."

"What, you're the only one who gets to decide that?"

"When it comes to you fucking _dying_ , then yeah, I am! You fucking dick!" Richie explodes, voice wet and tone manic. "Excuse me for not brushing this off when I know what it's like to lose you!"

"Rich," Eddie says. Quiet again. Deflated. "It's not like that."

"Yeah, so you said. But it happened once already and I—I can't go through that again."

Richie looks away when it becomes too much, choking back tears as Eddie leans onto his elbows. 

"Richie, you _won't,_ " Eddie insists. When Richie scoffs, he says, "Hey, listen to me. Even when I… even if I wasn't here, if I didn't get this, you wouldn't've lost me. God, Richie, you were the—you were the _last_ thing I saw. And what you did on the bridge, the way you feel—" He cuts himself off harshly, obviously on the verge of tears, same as Richie. "No matter what, you were always gonna have me, okay? You always will. Like, you stood up on stage and told everyone in that theater who you are and who _I_ am, to you, and I'm thinking, you know… you would've done that if I wasn't here, wouldn't you?"

"I don't know," Richie answers, partly because he can't bring himself to think about trying to entertain people when all his joy had been sucked out of him so entirelt those few months back. "Maybe that would've been my swan song, yeah. I'd tell everyone about you because you'd deserve it, because you _do,_ and then I'd move to Canada or something. Live in the woods. Become a lumberjack." He forces a stuffy laugh and clings to Eddie when he reaches for him. "I know that sounds funny, but I think that's all I'd be able to do."

"You wouldn't be alone," Eddie tries. "You'd have the Losers. And me."

"What, as a hole in my fucking heart? Memories I'd rather forget? Fucking letters on a piece of wood in the shithole I was gonna leave you in?"

"Don't," Eddie says sternly. "Don't act like that's all it was."

"Well, it would've been! I didn't know if you even—I didn't know you felt the same. And to get you back after all those years, to remember and then have to go on with all that after losing you again… I know it was only a few hours, but those hours were _real_ , they were _awful,,_ and everytime I think about it—Christ, Eddie, it scares the shit outta me. What a life that would've been. And then just now, what the _fuck_. You're having weird pains that you didn't wanna tell me about and I was so fucking scared. I'd do anything to keep you here, even if it wasn't _with_ me. You know that, right?" The tears spill over into hot tracks that run down his cheeks, chin wobbling when Eddie takes hold of it between his thumb and forefinger. "I used to think the way I felt about you was the scariest thing in the world, 'til you went and died on me. _For_ me."

"I'd do it again," Eddie fiercely replies, doubling down when Richie shakes his head with a sob. "Like, if we had to go back hopefully I'd retain everything we learned so I wouldn't _have_ to, but if we didn't… I would have. Because I love you. And you wouldn't've become a lumberjack because you love _me._ I'd want more for you than that, and you'd suck at it anyway. You need to socialize as much as you need to breathe. But you know what, Richie?" He feels like such a child, scrunching his eyes shut and hunching his shoulders up to his ears as Eddie finally sits up fully to tangle their limbs in a tight embrace. " _I'm okay._ I'm okay _becau_ se I love you and _because_ you love me, and I fucking know that for a fact because the Turtle told me."

"No he didn't," Richie mumbles into the crook of Eddie's neck and shoulder, rubbing snot on his skin and getting away with it. 

"Don't ne pedantic. He _showed_ me, is what I mean. Showed me _you._ "

"Yeah, but what if—"

"I'm not going anywhere," Eddie interrupts, sighing almost impatiently, and yet he burrows himself further into Richie as if trying to become one. "I seriously think I'd be able to tell if something was wrong. Like _bad_ wrong. And… well, it makes sense, right? I mean, aside from all the weird shit that happened, I still have scars. I got fixed up but I'm not brand new. So if it's some scar tissue or—or psychosematic pain, or whatever, it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter 'cause I'm _here_."

Eddie's words, just as much as the strong thundering of his heart, help to calm Richie down, until all that remains are puffy eyes and a stinging nose. And with Richie so firmly against him, Eddie seems to have settled as well, the panic from his unexplained pain having disappeared as fast as it came.

"I just wish you would've told me. I don't wanna smother you, I just need to _know_."

"I didn't think you would, it wasn't about that. I guess… sometimes I just need to prove to myself that I can make it on my own. And I didn't want you to worry, you already have all these nightmares. And I didn't wanna be treated like I was fragile, either."

"You're not, Eddie. You're so far from it. But needing help once in a while—like, that's not a bad thing. Why the hell do you think there're seven of us, huh? We've got big fucking problems, man, and we're all in it together."

"I was wrong, I'll admit that. But, to be fair, it's only happened like five times in total and it started in January, after I got back to New York. So it's not like I was actively hiding anything from you, I just never felt like I needed to mention it. I'm telling you, this one was the worst so far."

"Do you think it'll keep happening?" he can't help asking, dreading what the answer might turn out to be.

Eddie hums into Richie's hair. There's a long stretch of silence before he says:

"Maybe. And if it does I'll see a doctor, okay? I know I can't jump from extremes,, having a specialist on call to not talking to one at all. But I don't think this is anything crazy. Just residual. Or phantom. And, like I said, if that's the price of having _this—_ " He pulls back just enough to look Richie in the eye. His lenses are so smudged and speckled that he can barely see, but the outline of Eddie's big, brown gaze is achingly familiar. "I don't mind."

Then he smiles, small and sweet, formed from adoration, which is what Richie can feel rolling off himself in waves, and just like that he knows they're back on the same page. Knows they're good.

"I thought we were gonna have sex in the pool and instead I had a freaking crisis. Talk about whiplash."

Eddie's laugh jumpstarts Richie's world back into its normal rotation. 

"Yeah, you're tellin' me. Um, sorry for ruining this whole thing."

"Nah. You didn't, Eds. Would I have preferred _not_ crying like a little bitch? Sure. But this was still nice." 

He leans away to brush some hair from Eddie's forehead, getting his glasses gently pulled off and cleaned on a dry corner of the towel in response. Before Eddie can slip them back onto his face, Richie presses a barely-there kiss to the tip of his nose, to each brow and lid, to both his cheeks and his bearded jaw and, finally, to his parted lips. It's soft and chaste but has the weight of his heart behind every prolonged second. When they pull apart Eddie slips Richie's glasses back onto his bridge and his brilliant smile shoots into focus. 

"Wanna go to bed?"

"Yeah. Seems wise." 

Eddie moves carefully, unfolding his legs out in front of himself first before bending his knees and pushing up onto his feet, stretching once he's reached full height. Richie goes to mimic him and immediately winces at the way the muscles in his back begin to cramp.

"What?" Eddie asks, catching the wince Richie tries to hide. 

"Nothing. Just, uh, feelin’ super old right now."

"You need to limber up, man. Do some yoga."

"I'll do the downward dog for you, baby," he retorts as Eddie grabs onto his arms to help. 

He snorts, despite his best efforts to look annoyed. 

"C'mon then, Mister Funny Man. Move."

They towel off and redress, exiting the atrium side-by-side and walking back into the main building with strides that match perfectly, even with their difference in height. Eddie usually goes fast (Richie _still_ has to slow his pace for him), but he drags his feet now, like they have all the time in the world. It’s a thought Richie has visited quite a lot, though he hopes he won’t have to once he’s got Eddie full-time.

The key card is left at the front desk, their used items dropped into a hamper near the bathroom once they step inside their room, door clicking shut quietly in the too early hour of the morning. Richie feels dead on his feet but maybe that's a good thing, maybe he won't remember whatever dreams might be spawned from the rollercoaster of an episode they'd had by the pool.

Eddie is okay and so is Richie, so are _all_ the Losers. They’re safe. They’re _here._ Together. 

Both change, once again, into clothes that are appropriate for sleep, taking advantage of the double vanity to wash their faces and brush their teeth. Richie talks Eddie out of showering the chlorine off his skin by saying they'll be up in a few hours anyway and housekeeping can change the sheets while they're out. They plan on spending one more night in Reno, after all, while the rest of the gang flies out in the evening to get back home. But not RichieAndEddie. They'll be off to Vegas next, for two more shows and whatever it is they decide to do on _Valentine's Day—_ their first as a couple. It'll be the first time Richie's celebrated that particular holiday in… God knows _how_ long. He doesn't want to look forward to it, but fuck, Eddie will be heading back to NY the day after, so why not make it a Thing?

Richie can’t plan _shit_ in his current state, especially for something that still seems so far away, so he doesn't. Instead, Richie gathers Eddie in his arms beneath their red blanket and plants a kiss to the knob of his spine, murmuring something that's supposed to be _goodnight, I love you_ but can only really be heard as incoherent mumbling, the closer he is to falling asleep. 

"Love you, Rich," he hears, oh so quietly, then promptly conks the fuck out. 

And when he awakens, some seven or eight hours later, to his phone vibrating periodically on the nightstand, it's with Eddie's legs tucked between his own, with Eddie's drool drying on his arm, with Eddie's warmth swallowing him whole, and all Richie can think is… no matter what happens next, this right here will have always been worth it. And it always will be.

**Author's Note:**

> This took a really strange turn lol. Originally it was going to be the show and not much else, just like a little interlude since more fluffy reddie stuff will happen in the next parts, but then I thought of the thing with the pool, which was going to have smut until I /then/ thought of Eddie having issues with scar tissue. JUST SO YOU KNOW: NOTHING IS WRONG WITH EDDIE AT ALL. He's not dying, he's perfectly fine!! I am here for fluff and fluff ONLY. No sadness allowed. But I was randomly thinking about what happened in the main fic of this series; he says it in this part, how he was fixed up but not made brand new, hence the scarring, and because I had made it a point before to say it looked old I figured he'd now be having some belated reactions to whatever the turtle did to his internal organs to make him whole. (It's not a big thing for this universe, nothing is going to come from it, I just thought it was a nice detail to add and it sheds more light on their differing mindsets regarding the aftermath of everything.)
> 
> ANYWAY. I apologize if this isn't very interesting? I know it's sort of filler, but it wouldn't leave me alone so I had to get it out. And, outside of the main fic (part 1 of this series), all the add-ons are sort of just slice-of-life pieces anyway. I also apologize for the fact that this probably not funny lolol. I do not regularly immerse myself in comedies/stand-up. Plus, I really wanted Richie's first show back to be more of a personal thing with jokes sprinkled in, not whatever it was he'd been doing before, so there's my excuse! He basically got to pour his heart out and reveal his relationship with Eddie and now so many of his burdens have been lifted off his shoulders. Because that's what he deserves!!! I have 3 more fic ideas for this series, just a heads up! And several other ideas I keep mentioning but haven't actually worked on. I also-also apologize for any errors you might find.
> 
> I really want to thank you all for reading my fics and for leaving kudos and comments. It means so much to me. Seeing what you have to say brightens my days and really does inspire me to write more, so I hope you're not tired of me yet. Please feel free to let me know what you felt about this little entry! ♥ Maybe also let me know if you'd like to see more of this series first or if you think I should try to get one of my other ideas completed before the next part in this series? I'd appreciate the feedback. Thank you. :D
> 
> (side not: yes the name of the tattoo shop is a little nod to Pet Sematary. And the joke about Richie becoming a lumberjack is a nod to the Lumberjack Richie fics by camerasparring, simply because I came across them again while writing lol)


End file.
